“On Wednesday, General.”
At the door he turned. By the hard light of the electric chandelier in the corridor, the rouge on his cheeks was ridiculously obvious.
“Shall you be remaining here at the Parigi, Mr. Marlow?”
“I don’t think so. It is a little too expensive for me.”
There was a pause. “Mr. Ferning,” he said slowly, “had a very charming apartment.”
“So I believe. Mr. Ferning could probably afford it. I cannot.”
His eyes met mine. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Mr. Marlow.” He coughed gently. “To a man of intelligence, a business man, there are always opportunities.”
“No doubt.”
“It is a question only of whether he has the will to take them. But I must not take up any more of your time with these ideas of mine. Good evening, Mr. Marlow, and thank you for a pleasant meeting. I shall look forward to seeing you again next Wednesday.” He clicked his heels. “ A rivederci, Signore.”
“Good evening, General.”
He went. I returned to my room but, for the moment, I had forgotten about my bath.
General Vagas puzzled me. I had, too, an uncomfortable feeling that there had been a point to his conversation that I had somehow missed. I found myself wishing that I had known more about Ferning. There had obviously been something odd about him. His apartment, Vagas’ veiled hints… but Ferning was dead, and I had more important things to think about than effeminate Yugo-Slav generals. In a day or two I would write to the man and tell him that a business engagement prevented me from meeting him and his wife on the Wednesday. It would probably be true, anyway. I should have to present the letters of introduction that Pelcher had given me and make myself agreeable to the company’s excellent customers. Yes, that was my job-to make myself agreeable. If Spartacus were willing to sell shell-production machinery and someone else were willing to buy it, it was not for me to discuss the rights and wrongs of the business. I was merely an employee. It was not my responsibility. Hallett would probably have had something to say about it; but then Hallett was a Socialist. Business was business. The thing to do was to mind one’s own.
I had turned my bath on and was beginning to undress when there was a knock at the door.
It was the Manager of the Parigi in person.
“I must apologise profoundly for disturbing you, signor Marlow.”
“That’s all right. What is it?”
“The police, Signore, have telephoned. They understand that you intend to stay in Italy for some time. It is necessary to deposit your passport for registration purposes. The passport is retained for only a few hours and then returned to you.”
“I know. But I gave you my passport. You said that you would arrange these formalities.”
He fluttered uneasily. “Quite so, Signore. In the ordinary way-in the case of a tourist-but in the case of the Signore it is different. I have your passport here, Signore. If you would be so kind as to present yourself personally at the Amministrazione in the morning, the matter will arrange itself.”
“Oh, very well.” I took the passport. “I suppose this is usual?”
“Yes, yes, Signore. Certainly it is usual. The regulations, you understand. If the Signore were a tourist then it would be simple. In the case of a resident there are certain formalities. Quite usual, Signore, and according to the regulations. Good night, Signore.”
“Good night.”
He went and I put the matter out of my mind.
It was not until I was soaking blissfully in the steaming water that it occurred to me to wonder why General Vagas thought it necessary to carry a sword-stick.
4
It used to be the custom to commemorate moments of national humiliation or disaster by applying the adjective “black” to the day of the week concerned. The pages of European history are, so to speak, bespattered with the records of Black Mondays and Black Thursdays. It may be that, in this twentieth century, almost daily acquaintance with large-scale catastrophe has deprived the custom of its point. Black and white have tended to merge into a drab grey.
Yet, for me, there is a Wednesday which, in its sooty blackness, is easily distinguishable from the grey. It is the day following that upon which I met General Vagas.
It began with a visit to the Amministrazione della Polizia.
I presented myself, passport in hand, shortly after nine o’clock. After surrendering the passport to a policeman wearing a Monagesque uniform and a huge sword, I was ushered into a waiting-room. Except for a row of greasy wooden armchairs and an ink-stained table it was bare of furniture. From one wall glowered a large fly- blown photograph of Mussolini. Facing it on the opposite wall was a companion representation of King Victor Emmanuel. The frames of both portraits were draped, rather carelessly, with Italian flags. When I arrived, one of the chairs was occupied by an old woman in mourning, eating a cold compress of spaghetti out of an American- cloth bag. After about ten minutes she was beckoned out by the policeman and I was left alone to study the Duce’s apoplectic glare.
I waited for an hour and a quarter. Shortly after the forty-five minutes mark I went to the door and complained to the policeman. I had, I protested, work to do. His only response was a shrug and a vague assurance that my case was receiving attention. I retired once more to the waiting-room. By the time he appeared at the door and beckoned to me, my temper was already a trifle frayed. What followed did nothing to improve it.
I was shown into a room occupied by a man in a dark-green uniform. He was lolling back in his swivel chair flipping over the pages of an illustrated magazine. One gleaming, booted leg was cocked over an arm of the chair which he had swung round, so that all I could see of him was the back of his neck. Beyond affecting a slightly more intense preoccupation with the magazine, he took no notice of my entrance. With rising irritation, I studied the neck.
It was plump and brown and bulged over the narrow line of white stiff collar above the uniform collar. I took an immediate dislike to the neck and to its owner. He flipped over the last of the pages, dropped the magazine on his desk and swung round to face me. My dislike was promptly confirmed. His face was small, smooth, round and spiteful. He scowled at me.
“Yes? What do you want?”
“My passport.”
“And why should I have your passport? Get out!”
Deciding that the fool of a policeman had probably shown me into the wrong room, I turned to go.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
“What is your name?”
“Marlow.”
“English?”
“Yes.”
“Ah!” He turned to his table, picked up my passport from under the magazine and looked at the name on it. “Ah, yes! Signor Marlow, the Englishman.” He smiled unpleasantly.
“Precisely, Signore,” I burst out angrily. “And I should like to know why I have been kept waiting for an hour and a quarter.” I nodded towards the magazine. “I, at any rate, have something to do with my time.”
It was perhaps unwise of me, but I could not help it. The prospect of carrying out my intention of putting in a good day’s work at the office was receding rapidly. I was thoroughly angry. Nevertheless, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew that I had blundered.
His lip curled viciously.
